Beyond Help
by witnesstoitall
Summary: When the war with Woodberry comes unannounced in the dead of night it seems as if they are beyond help. Perhaps together, by the light of day, they may just make it through. [Speculative Post 3x13; not finale compliant. Contains some images of violence and character death] *Carol/Daryl*
1. From the Yard

**A/N:** **Welcome to the first chapter of **_**Beyond Help**_**! This is something that I never really intended to write. Believe it or not, this came from a prompt on Tumblr about Daryl being injured and Carol caring for him, and has morphed into this – an AU speculative fic about what may be to come at the end of season 3 and what could happen afterwards. While I can't promise that the original prompt will actually appear, I can say that the major shipping in this story will be caryl. So without further ado, I give you the first chapter of **_**Beyond Help**_**. **

**Disclaimer:** _**The Walking Dead**_** and its characters are not mine. Read at your own risk; contains scenes of violence, despair and character death.**

* * *

I. From the Yard

"Carol, listen to me." Rick grabbed her chin with his free hand, jerking her to attention. "Listen to me," his voice hissed. "We need to fall back inside the prison. Do you hear me? Fall back to the prison –"

* * *

The window to the storage room exploded, showering the catwalk in shards of glass.

Ducking around the corner, Carol gripped her rifle to herself and slid down the cement wall, not noticing the way its rough surface bit at the skin of her shoulders not covered by thin red tank top. Her breath was coming in short gasps. She knew if she didn't calm herself, if she didn't gather her head, shoulder her rifle and set her sight down its barrel, she'd be no help to anyone.

Taking a deep breath and pressing her eyes shut, she tried to ignore the voice whispering in the back of her mind – the voice that told her they were beyond help.

That they were pretty much dead already.

The yard was in chaos.

Bullets ripped through the thick, pre-dawn fog and pelted the prison walls in a torrent of unquestionable superiority. Gun fire lit the outer perimeter still doused in blackness, outlining the forms of the men – living, breathing _men_ – who fired them.

The moans of the walkers and the squelching of their rotting limbs dragging against the fencing pressed in on them. The grotesque sounds serving as a grim reminder to the living. A reminder that this world belonged to the dead, now. A reminder that the dead cared naught for the outcome of the wars of men.

Carol exhaled slowly and opened her eyes. Her fingers fumbled to press fresh cartridges into her rifle like Daryl had taught her. Somehow, it had seemed so much easier in the light of day beneath is watchful gaze.

_Daryl_.

Hot tears burned her eyes. She couldn't afford to let her mind wonder where he was or if he was okay. Not with the hounds of war breathing down her neck.

It wasn't supposed to be this way.

The war wasn't supposed to begin in the early hours of the morning when only Carl was on watch. It wasn't supposed to begin when the rest of the prison lay unsleeping in their cells, staring up into the nothingness wondering what that day would bring. It wasn't supposed to begin until noon when Rick and the Governor were set to meet to discuss their terms.

Nothing was supposed to be this way, and yet it was.

Swallowing one last calming gulp of air, Carol leaned around the corner and gazed down the black, metal barrel of her rifle. What she was aiming for through the fog and blackness, she wasn't sure, but she couldn't sit and hide when the rest of her family could be pinned down, or worse. Settling her sites over a dark form along the tree line whose gunfire had been trained on the catwalk since the window had shattered, her finger pumped the trigger, and she prayed to god she killed the son of a bitch.

_Bang_

_Bang_

_Bang _

On the third shot, the figure dropped. A swelling of pride filled her chest for a fraction of a second before she shoved it down. The group had been heading to the yard when the gunfire had first broken out – there was cover there, space to move. Without another thought, she moved, her feet flying down the stairs to the yard below.

~::~

"Carol, get down."

Ricks voice cut through the turmoil, and she felt her body react before her mind had a chance to process his words. Diving down behind a slab of sheet metal, she took a moment to look at the man whose hands they'd trusted their lives to. A layer of dirt and sweat covered his face but not enough to obscure the hollowness below his eyes or the grey hairs that had found their way into his beard. His chest heaved from exertion, and his hands gripped the handle of his pistol with white knuckles.

A barrage of gunfire sounded and a spray of bullets ricocheted off of the metal at their backs like high pitched thunder. Carol flinched, curling her hands over her head as if they'd keep her safe if one of Woodberry's bullets decided to tear through their thin shield.

"How much ammo do you have left?"

Rick's mouth was moving but she couldn't process his words.

"Ammo. Do you have any ammo?" He gestured with his pistol, a fleck of desperation in his eyes.

She felt her head nod mechanically as the sound of a man's scream tore through the air. Glancing over her shoulder, she nodded again with more insistence. "One, maybe two shots left. What're we –" Her question died in her throat as she saw Rick's face fall. It said it all – gave her the answer that somewhere, deep inside, she already knew.

They were nearly out of ammunition.

They were out manned, out gunned, and as the first hints of sunlight began licking up into the sky, they knew it. And so did their enemy.

The grating squeal of the gate being slid open pierced its way into her heart, and she blinked back the tears that sprung up in her eyes. _They were in the yard._ This was it. After a year surviving, of _living_ in the constant presence of death, this was how it was going to end – strung out, defenseless, in the shadow of a prison. There'd be no colorful dawn to signify their passing, no reds or pinks or oranges to commemorate the family they'd formed or the challenges they'd overcome. No, they'd pass from this life beneath a morning sky as bleak and grey as the walkers along the outer wall that moaned in anticipation for their flesh.

"Carol, listen to me." Rick grabbed her chin with his free hand, jerking her to attention. "Listen to me," his voice hissed. "We need to fall back inside the prison. Do you hear me? Fall back to the prison – if that gate is open it won't be long before the yard is crawling in walkers. If Woodberry wants this yard, they can deal with the walkers. We need to get out of here."

She felt her head nod once more as her senses returned, the wave of despair ebbing from her mind.

"Make for C Block; tell everyone you pass to do the same. Ready? On three" Rick pressed what Carol suspected were his last four rounds into the chamber of his pistol before nodding his head. "One… Two… _Three._"

And she ran.

All around her the sound of gun fire and foreign voices shouting about _biters_, the sound of walkers on the trail of living flesh and of that flesh screaming as it was ripped apart filled the air. And still she ran. Deep down, she knew that if she paused even for a moment, she wouldn't have the strength to carry onward. As her hands reached out for the cement wall of C Block, another sound filled her ears.

The sound of a _still-living_ man groaning.

Glancing around the corner into the supply alcove, Carol's heart dropped into her stomach.

_Hershel_.

A trail of blood lead from the center of the alcove to where he leaned against the tin wall pressing one hand to a gaping wound in his abdomen. His eyes were shut, and she could see his breath coming in short and shallow gasps. A small hand gun lay limply in his other hand.

Her own blood running cold in her veins, Carol hurried to his side and knelt down next to the old veterinarian. "Hershel, can you hear me?" Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

The shuffling sound of approaching walkers spiked her heart rate.

"Hershel, I need you to answer me," she said more forcefully.

His eyes slid open and his lips moved, but only a rush of breath came out. Tears streaming down her face, she could only shake her head – his silent plea evading her conscious mind. Suddenly, his arm jerked, and she jumped back. It was only when the empty click of his gun filled the quiet between them that she fully understood.

_Please._

He was asking her to end this on his terms and not at the ravenous jaws of the walkers or by the slow insidious nature of his injury. He was asking her to give him a permanent death so he didn't have to rise up as one of the undead.

Raising her rifle, she gazed down the barrel at a man whom she had come to love, a man who had come to represent family and values, the man who had taught her what it meant to have a spirit that was unafraid. She imagined pulling the trigger and seeing his life end at her hands. Her hands shook, her vision blurred, and she lowered her rifle.

"I'm sorry, Hershel. I just can't."

Taking a step towards him, she placed her rifle in his already-cold hands and lifted his finger to the trigger. Turning her back to him, her world froze as the sound of a single shot filled the tiny alcove. It was only when she heard Glenn's voice yelling to an unknown someone to get inside that her feet remembered how to move again.

She rounded the corner, shaking and breathless, and followed Maggie into C Block.

The sound of Judith's wails echoed off the cement walls and filled her ears as she looked around what remained of their group. Rick stood nearest to the door with his hand on Carl's shoulder. Both men, for it would be an insult to call the latter anything but, stared straight into the cold floor. Maggie had shouldered the screaming infant and buried her head into Glenn's neck. Beth leant un-moving against the wall, her usually bright eyes blank. They had gone to sleep the night before as a group of ten. They stood here now as a group of six. Pulling her arms around her middle, Carol thought back to her foolishness in ever calling this prison their home.

Daryl had been right after all – it was nothing but a tomb.

In that moment, she finally allowed herself to wonder about the fate of the man who she'd inextricably and indefinably tied to her heart. The last she'd seen him, his back had disappeared around the back of the prison with his brother in an attempt to flank Woodberry's onslaught and provide suppressing fire.

It seemed fitting that a man such as he wouldn't die inside a prison. He was a man of the woods, of the open air.

She felt a choked sob begin to form in her throat when a rattling from outside the main door tore the group from their stupor. Without a gun, Carol pulled her knife from its place on her belt and drew in a deep breath. The sound of gruff voices and a burst of frustrated automatic fire punctuated the tense stillness that had fallen over them.

Pressing his finger to his lips, Rick pushed the single, half-emptied box of ammunition that they had left inside the prison towards them, renewing a sense of fight into their nearly broken minds.

The end of the war may have been upon them, but that didn't have to mean their end was near.

~::~


	2. Into the Woods

**A/N: To so I'm overwhelmed by the kind reception y'all gave chapter one would be a gross under-exaggeration. Thank you all so much! The first scene of this this chapter was originally intended to be the final scene of chapter one, but I sort of felt like that chapter had come to a natural end without it. As always I appreciate and look forward to reading any feedback or constructive criticism you leave for me. Hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer:** _**The Walking Dead**_** and its characters are not mine. Read at your own risk; contains scenes of violence, despair and character death.**

* * *

II. Into the Woods

"Glenn, I need you to lead the way out. Head to the breach in the wall and make for the tree line. I'm going out to the main door to try and pick off as many as possible as they come in –"

* * *

_Pressing his finger to his lips, Rick pushed the single, half-emptied box of ammunition that they had left inside the prison towards them, renewing a sense of fight into their nearly broken minds._

_The end of the war may have been upon them, but that didn't have to mean their end was near._

…

A second, louder rattle followed by a heavy pounding sounded from the door that connected C Block to the yard that now belonged to the walkers and men of Woodberry. It was a heavy door, but if the Governor's forces meant to gain entrance – be it to finish what they'd started or to seek refuge from the walkers, it wouldn't hold them out indefinitely.

Bursts of gun fire punctuated the increased ministrations at the entryway.

It was only a matter of time.

Carol's knife shook in her hand as all around her the group seemed to leap into action. Glenn grabbed the box of munitions and pulled out several cartridges which he hastily loaded into Dale's old hunting rifle. Carl had pulled an assorted bag of small caliber hand guns from behind the sack of dried beans and passed one to each of the women before setting the remainders near the front of the cell. Rick crossed to where Maggie still clutched Judith to herself and pressed a kiss into his infant daughter's head.

Around the cell block, they eyed one another with a similar face of twisted determination.

"Alright," Rick said, striding towards the front of the cell cocking the hammer of his pistol, "this is what's going to happen. Glenn –"

Just then, Rick's words were lost as the sound of heavy footfalls and something being dragged echoed out from the corridor leading back to the tombs. The group's attention immediately abandoned Rick and the threat at their front door and passed to this new intrusion. Even Judith's cries seemed to still in tense anticipation. Knife in one hand, Carol fingered the handle of the pistol Carl had given her with the other. When a figure finally appeared at the end of the shadowy corridor, her breath caught in her throat.

There, in the doorway, stood Daryl covered in blood and baring the weight of his brother's mostly limp form on his shoulder.

"The fuck you all looking at?" he said, wincing as Glenn and Carol scrambled to his side to ease Merle from his shoulder. Her gaze lingered on the copious amount of blood covering his arms and torso, and couldn't help but wonder how much of it was his own. "We're about five minutes out from having a herd pour through here like it were made of some damn playin' cards or somethin'."

His eyes met Carol's for a moment as he helped lower Merle to the cement floor. A deep gash ran across the older brother's shoulder near the base of his neck.

"What happened?" she whispered.

"Shudda just left me there, baby brother," Merle said, as a fit of coughing wracked through his body. A thin trail of blood trickled out from the corner of his mouth. "Wouldn't have got yourself shot if ya wasn't tryin' ta bring my sorry ass back here."

Carol's eyes flicked up to Daryl who only shook his head in response.

"Daryl, what happened?" This time it was Rick who asked.

"Bit – didn't have nothing left to do what needed done." Daryl's voice cracked as he spoke, his head hanging down at his own self-perceived failure. "Couldn't leave him out there for the geeks." He rose to his feet and threw his empty pistol against the ground. His hand reached up to where fresh blood ran from his own shoulder.

_Merle was bitten. _

_Daryl was shot._

Heavier, more insistent pounding sounded against the door leading out to the yard, and Carol felt her head swim.

"Here," Carl's voice, broke the strangled stillness that had fallen over the group as he approached the men with the butt of his own pistol extended. "It was yours once, anyway."

Daryl took the gun from him, and exchanged a knowing nod before kneeling beside his brother's form on the ground. He raised his arm slowly and pressed the barrel against Merle's forehead. Before she clamped her own shut, Carol saw the tears that shone in Daryl's eyes as he cocked back the slide.

The sound of a round dropping into the chamber chimed through the air.

"For being such a pussy, you're a damn fine man, little brother."

"You son of a bitch."

She could hear Daryl's voice shake and swore she heard Merle chuckle before the sound of a gunshot reverberated through the cell, punctuated by the screams of a startled infant. When she opened her eyes, Daryl had his own clamped shut as he leaned back against the wall next to his brother's body. He wore a grimace on his face as he clutched at the gunshot wound on his shoulder.

"That herd'll be here any minute, Rick," He muttered through clenched teeth.

As if on cue, Woodberry's persistent rattling and pounding against the entrance to C block stilled for an eerie moment.

Then the screaming began.

Rick strode towards the front of the cell, pistol in hand and Carl in his wake. "Is the back entrance clear?" He stared hard at Daryl, whose head only half-lifted to look up at the sheriff. "Was it clear?"

"Was when we came through." The man answered in a weak voice – as if his own blood loss had finally caught up with him.

"Well let's hope it still is." He picked up a second pistol and shoved into the holster on his belt. "Glenn, I need you to lead the way out. Head to the breach in the wall and make for the tree line. I'm going out to the main door to try and pick off as many as possible as they come in – buy y'all some time to get out. I'll meet you near the river bank as soon as I can."

"We."

The tears that Carol had been holding back since retreating into the cell block ran down her cheeks at the sound of Carl's voice. She watched as the young man also picked up a second pistol, tucked it into the waistband of his jeans, and looked dutifully up at his father.

If Rick was surprised, he handled it well and brought a hand to squeeze his son's shoulder. "_We'll _meet you near the river."

With that, the Grimes men gave nearly identical nods and disappeared from view, jogging out towards the main entrance as a gust of air told the rest of the group that the door had been breached. That something had broken through. The sound of Rick's voice shouting out commands and the responding gunfire confirmed that that something were walkers.

"I'm going to go on ahead – make sure there's a clear path," Glenn said in a hollow voice. "You all gather up only what you can easily carry; then follow me."

In a flurry of movement, Maggie scrambled to grab what ammo was left and divided it between the few bags of supplies that they'd readied the night before. Carol did the same with their meager lot of medical supplies. The increasing rate of gunfire ringing back from the entryway urged their hands forward.

"Beth," Maggie shouted to where her sister still stood motionless against the wall. "Beth, you could be helping."

Carol shook her head at the young woman. "Let her be, she's in shock. She'll have to be moving soon enough." Even as she spoke, her eyes slipped to where Daryl sat holding his wounded and still bleeding shoulder, oblivious to what was happening around him. His face was almost white beneath the dirt caked over it and his head bobbed in place as he slipped in and out of consciousness.

Maggie followed her gaze and pursed her lips.

Just then, a tumultuous clamor rose from the entryway. A series of rapid gun fire stilled into nothingness, and then the unmistakable, dragging gait of walkers could be heard coming towards the cell block.

Carol's heart leapt up into her throat.

_Rick. _

_Carl._

She watched for a brief moment as Maggie scooped Judith up from her make-shift bed and grabbed her sister's arm, pulling the three of them to the corridor that lead to the back entrance, before she rushed to Daryl's side.

"Carol, come on. We have to go, now." The young woman's tearful voice called back to her from the corridor.

"I'll be right behind you."

The sound of Maggie and Beth's feet retreating from the cell block was swiftly replaced by the sound of the walkers that had broken through. Hoisting Daryl's good arm over her shoulder and attempting to stand, Carol quickly realized that she wouldn't be able to move if he couldn't help her help him.

"Daryl," she couldn't keep the hollow ring of desperation from her voice, "Daryl we have to go, but I need you to stand up first. Please, Daryl." She felt the sting of tears on her face as the stench of rotting flesh filled her nose and the first walker stumbled into the cell block. It was followed by a second and a third. Fear gripped at her heart until she felt like she couldn't breathe. "I can do this alone, but I don't want to have to."

Just then, a putrid hand grasped at her elbow, and she stifled a scream. Jerking back, she squeezed the trigger of her pistol and watched as the walker fell over before taking aim at the other two in quick succession. Almost as if the gunshots had roused him from his shallow plane of unconsciousness, Daryl stirred next to her and lifted his head.

"Nice shootin'."

His weak, slurred words reached her ears and she turned back to his side, repositioning his good arm around her shoulders once more

"If we're fixin' ta leave, I'ma need a gun 'n my bow."

Carol fought back the inappropriate, near-giddy urge to smile. Assuring that his crossbow and empty quiver were strapped to his back, her hands fumbled for the pistol he'd tossed to the floor. She tucked it back into his holster and hoped that Maggie had grabbed bullets for it.

"Okay, now let's get out of here."

~::~

Carol's legs shook as the breach in the wall came into view and her mind tried to urge her body to pick up its pace. Even though his legs were working to help support his weight and move them forward, Daryl's upper body was heavy leaning against hers.

The feeling of his blood trickling down her chest from his shoulder made her stomach clench.

How much had he lost?

She knew that he'd lost enough, that his wound needed to be bound and soon.

Clambering over the rubble that separated them from the outside world, she was surprised to find the morning just as grim and grey as when Rick had first given the order to fall back into their cell block. For some reason, a part of her had expected there to be sunshine.

The handful of minutes that had passed since that moment felt like days, a lifetime even.

"Hang in there. We're almost to the tree line," she whispered – whether to herself or him, she wasn't sure. "Glenn, Maggie and Beth – they're waiting just outside for us. They'll help."

Daryl winced against her as she jumped, guiding him down from a large chunk of cement onto the ground below. She looked down at his face – his chin bobbed against his chest and his eyes fluttered in his increasingly futile attempt to keep them open. The line of his mouth was pressed thin.

She tore her face away from his and glanced around, surveying the narrow strip of land that separated them from the assumed-safety of the woods behind the prison. Her knees nearly buckled as a fresh torrent of desperation washed over her.

There was no sign of Glenn or either of the Greene girls anywhere.

Instead, walkers from the herd that hadn't forced their way into the prison traipsed over the brown grass. Even if she wasn't helping to support Daryl's weight and could run, even if she had the freedom to aim and shoot her pistol with both hands, Carol very much doubted whether she'd be able to make it to the line of tall trees.

And even if she did, what then?

"-'s a matter?" Daryl mumbled into her shoulder as if he had felt the way her body had tensed.

She opened her mouth and shut it, realizing she had no answer to give to him.

Suddenly, a flurry of motion in her periphery too fast to be a walker, caught her attention.

_Michonne._

Carol watched as the lithe woman charged through the grass, blade effortlessly cutting through the walkers in her path as if she were born to do just that. From somewhere, a tiny flicker of hope ignited in her chest.

"Sorry I'm late," the blood-spattered woman said, panting. A hint of a smile playing at her lips as she lowered her katana. "Glenn disappeared into the trees with the girls and the baby not long ago."

"Rick and Carl?" Carol couldn't help but ask.

Michonne's eyes flicked downward for a second before she looked up and shook her head.

"Haven't seen them. Now you listen to me." Her voice was intense as she stared at Carol's face. "As soon as you move for the woods, these walkers are going to take after you – and there are plenty more around front. You're going to run as fast as you can, and you're not going to look back, do you understand me?"

Carol felt her eyes widen. "But what about you?" she stammered.

"I'll be just fine." Michonne centered her Katana in front of her chest. "You just run, Carol."

Hoisting Daryl's arm more securely around her neck, she glanced down at the man. His eyes lifted up to hers for the briefest of moments and she swore he nodded his head. She looked up at the woman who despite being hardly more than a stranger, had become their hope and savior.

She mouthed an insufficient thank-you.

And she ran.

As she reached the tree line, as her muscles screamed for oxygen and she felt Daryl's weight grow heavier, as he began sliding from her shoulder, Carol couldn't help but think that maybe there'd be sunshine tomorrow.

~::~


	3. Over the Edge

**A/N: So, this is only half of what I originally intended to include in this chapter, but it was getting a bit lengthy and I wanted to be able to update before tonight's episode. Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, favorited, or followed this story. It really means a lot to me to receive such a positive response to something I enjoy writing. I hope you enjoy this chapter and look forward to hearing what you think of it! **

**Disclaimer:** _**The Walking Dead**_** and its characters are not mine. Read at your own risk; contains scenes of violence, despair, gore and character death.**

* * *

III. Over the Edge

He stayed there on the ground, not moving or making a sound.

Her heart clenched painfully, and she scrambled to his side. Swallowing down the bile that had risen into her throat, she leaned over his chest.

* * *

_She mouthed an insufficient thank-you._

_And she ran._

_As she reached the tree line, as her muscles screamed for oxygen and she felt Daryl's weight grow heavier, as he began sliding from her shoulder, Carol couldn't help but think that maybe there'd be sunshine tomorrow._

…

The snapping and popping of underbrush beneath their feet rang in her head like the gun fire that had torn through the prison. The crack of each twig made her wince and wonder if it'd be the one to bring the herd down around them. Grimacing, she prayed to whatever was listening that her ability to even hear these sounds meant that there wasn't anything more ominous nearby to be heard.

She needed for that to be true.

They were hardly fifty feet beyond the tree line, but she was rapidly losing momentum.

The landing of her footsteps had become wildly erratic as she felt her lungs protest against the heavy humidity in the early morning air. Her nails bit into the skin of Daryl's arm in a feeble attempt to keep him from sliding down her shoulder, and as she pushed herself to keep moving.

_Just a little further_.

The promise filled her head once more.

Carol wasn't sure when she'd begun repeating it to herself, but it was the mantra that seemed to have been propelling her forward since the first gun shots had echoed outside the prison. To be honest, it may very well have been the mantra that had been guiding her actions since the dead had begun walking the earth.

Even so, when Daryl's legs missed one step, then two and she lurched off balance, heart leaping up into her throat, she had to ask herself how much further she _could _go.

Inhaling deeply, she tried to steady herself and snuff the question from her mind. She took a tentative step and her eyes flickered down to the man who had done and risked so much for her, for all of them, over the past year. She knew in her heart that he had and would keep going as long as he could for any of them.

He deserved for her to do the same.

Her sense of resolve renewed, but fragile, she tightened her jaw and blinked back the tears that burned in her eyes. Together, they made it another three, painfully slow steps forward before the full of Daryl's weight sagged against her shoulder and his legs splayed out behind him sending both of them crashing to the forest floor.

The air rushed out from her lungs as his body collided with her chest. Blinking back the tiny stars that dotted the periphery of her vision, Carol drew in a shaky breath and, with all the force she could muster, rolled him off of her onto his back.

He stayed there on the ground, not moving or making a sound.

Her heart clenched painfully, and she scrambled to his side. Swallowing down the bile that had risen into her throat, she leaned over his chest.

_No._

_Not him, too._

_She couldn't – _

Relief came in the form of a strangled sob when she felt his breath, rapid and shallow, against her face.

He was alive – unconscious, but alive. He had been weak and fighting to stay awake before their evacuation from the prison, and the exertion of it had done nothing to slow the flow of blood that ran out from his shoulder where one of Woodberry's bullets had torn through him.

Her vision blurring behind salty tears and body trembling, Carol pressed her hands tentatively and then more firmly against the sopping crimson material overlaying the gunshot wound. She sat like that for a moment willing her mind to slow down enough to form rational thought, absorbing the feel of his thready pulse as it raced beneath her hands, and hoping that Hershel had taught her enough during their time together.

Just then, despite the warmth in the air, she felt a rash of Goosebumps break out across the skin at the back of her neck. Her hair stood on end, and she chanced a look over her shoulder.

There, not even two yards away, was a walker – a young woman at one time from the looks of the long, ratty tufts of dishwater hair that hung limply from its grey-green scalp. Almost as if it could sense the sudden spike in Carol's pulse or see the momentary panic that flashed in her eyes, the creature staggered towards her gnashing its jaws and grasping at the air with bloody, desperate hands.

Mind blank, Carol scrambled backwards across the ground until a tree trunk prevented any further retreat.

Heart thundering, her hands shook while she fumbled to free the knife at her belt.

Stomach recoiling, she tried not to think about the smell of death as the walker leaned over her trapped form.

And then her knife was free, and she thrust it into the creature's head with the power of all the fear and frustration that had been threatening to overwhelm her. Dead for good, its limp corpse fell onto her, and she shoved it away in disgust, scrambling back up to her feet. The sound of additional lurching footsteps and moaning drew her attention to Daryl's prone figure.

Two more walkers were stumbling towards him.

Without thinking, her free hand clenched around a rock lying amongst the underbrush. She hurled it at the walker closest to him; she shouted out and rustled the foliage covering the ground, anything to try and divert their attention from him, but they took no notice.

The smell of Daryl's blood spoke to their most primal need to feed.

Carol hadn't realized that she had rushed towards them, that she'd driven her knife into the back of the first's skull, or that she'd ploughed her body into the second, slamming its head against a tree root until she sat back on her feet, hands hanging limply at her sides.

A wave of exhaustion so acute that it almost took her breath away poured over her, but she knew she couldn't think about that yet.

There were things to be done.

They were still in plain sight of anything, living or dead, that happened to look out from the rear of the prison.

Daryl was unconscious and still losing blood.

Drawing up a strength she didn't know she had left, she studied their surroundings. They were positioned on the crest of a small hillside. Perhaps, from the other side, it could serve as cover for them. Kneeling beside Daryl's unconscious body, she dug the toes of her boots into the earth and rolled him over the edge. He slid down about ten feet before coming to a gentle stop.

Clambering after him, she began wracking her mind for a plan on dealing with his injury.

~::~

Pulling the lone blanket from the backpack she'd managed to grab before leaving the prison up around his bare torso, she wondered how his body could feel so cold in the sweltering mid-morning heat. She uncapped their flask of water, and dribbled a few drops into his parted mouth. Only when his lips pressed shut and his throat reflexively swallowed them down did she chance pouring in a bit more.

He was in shock.

What he needed was a proper bandage to stay his bleeding, IV fluids to replace the blood he'd lost, and a clean environment where he could stay warm until he regained consciousness, but they had none of those things and Carol was doing the best she could given their circumstances.

Thankfully, they hadn't had anymore run-ins with walkers.

Rubbing her hands against her shoulders, burning red despite the layer of grime coating them and the canopy formed by the trees, she allowed herself to really look at the man lying in front of her.

His face, for all the blood and dirt covering it, was peaceful. His chest rose and fell beneath the thin blanket as his body rhythmically took deep and steady breaths. The edge of his devil tattoo was just visible peeking up and out of the crease where his arm lay against his chest; she stifled the urge to reach out and run her fingers over it, instead allowing her mind wonder when and why he'd gotten it. The scars, some thin and shiny, others wide and raised, that littered his chest had a similar pull on her, except she did allow her hand to hesitantly graze over a few, to slowly work its way up and out along his shoulder to where her cardigan was packed tightly against his injury.

By some grace, the bullet that caused it had torn clean through him.

She wasn't sure what she'd have been able to do, if anything, had the hunk of metal had still been lodged in his arm. Her mind flashed back to her crude attempts to stop the bleeding. She'd known that had to be her first priority and had struggled to remove his shirt – cursing whatever had possessed him to decide wearing sleeves was a good idea – getting her first unimpeded look at the wound. Her cardigan was the cleanest thing they had, and so she'd balled it up and pressed it into the wound, trying her best to ignore the way his body spasmed in response to the pain the action had surely caused him, even in his unconscious state. They had no gauze or anything of the sort, so she'd secured the make-shift bandage in place with a roll of duct tape she'd found in one of their backpack's pockets, hoping it'd help to keep pressure against his torn flesh.

Exhaling, she placed two fingers against his neck to check his pulse, which thrummed evenly beneath his skin. As she tenderly brushed his hair back from his face, her thoughts slipped to Hershel and she whispered her gratitude for the deceased man into the air.

Perhaps the veterinarian could hear her. Wherever he was now, he'd certainly been along side her to guide her hands.

Even though they were still stranded on the backside of a hill surrounded by dense trees on one side and a prison overrun with walkers on the other, despite the fact that they were separated from the rest of the group with next to no supplies, Daryl was alive.

_She wasn't alone. _

And that was all the more she could ask for.

Tipping more water into his mouth before treating herself to a small sip, she scooted closer to him and leant back against the tree he was propped against. She turned the small blade of her hunting knife over in her hand, appreciating the way the sunshine reflected off of its surface, and she resumed watch.

She watched as the sun traced its path across the sky.

She watched as dusk fell and a light evening breeze kicked up.

And as she felt her body shiver, she pulled the edge of the blanket covering Daryl over her and willed herself to keep the sleepiness that hovered just behind her eyes at bay.

~::~


	4. By the Moonlight

**A/N: I firstly want to apologize for how long it's taken me to write this chapter. Examinations for school have been really demanding lately, and today was the first day I've had to work on this. You've all been so, so kind and supportive of this story and you deserve more timely updates. Your reviews are like gold and I really do appreciate them, so thank you! This chapter was very difficult for me to write – both emotionally and mechanically. There's a lot to this one, so I hope I did it justice and that you enjoy it. Please let me know what you thought of it and leave a review if you have the time. **

**Disclaimer:** _**The Walking Dead**_** and its characters are not mine. Read at your own risk; contains scenes of violence, despair, gore and character death.**

* * *

IV. By the Moonlight

In this world, surrounded by the dead, grasping to what felt more and more like borrowed time, it seemed selfish to grieve over or fear death. In this world of the walking dead, they could really only celebrate the days they managed to steal for themselves – the days they spent alive.

* * *

_She watched as dusk fell and a light evening breeze kicked up._

_And as she felt her body shiver, she pulled the edge of the blanket covering Daryl over her and willed herself to keep the sleepiness that hovered just behind her eyes at bay. _

…

The warmth of the early morning sunshine filtering down between the trees did nothing for the chill that had wrapped itself around her heart with a vice-like grip. A helpless, floating sort of desperation pressed in on Carol from all sides, surrounding her and seeping into her pores, filling her lungs and stifling the sob she could feel building from within her core.

Everything was painfully numb.

The world moved around her in slow motion. Reduced to spectator, she watched as her thin and tired body, still coated in layers of Daryl's dried blood, scrambled to the man's side. His skin had taken on an ashen hue and his breath was coming in short, erratic gasps.

Her mind was a mess of grey static and white noise. There was only one cognizant thought discernible amidst the mess.

_No._

How, after everything, was this happening?

It couldn't be. It just couldn't.

_No. _

The sound of the monosyllable on her voice sounded loud in the quiet morning air and jarred her from her headspace. Reaching a shaking hand out, she placed two fingers against the crook of his neck just below his jaw. His skin was cold, despite the blanket she'd wrapped him in, and his pulse was barely palpable as it thrummed sluggishly beneath his skin.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, running a hand through his hair. Whether it was meant to soothe him or her, she wasn't sure.

It was only about a year ago that she had told him that she couldn't lose him too – that he'd pointed out that she didn't know what to do with herself without her husband or daughter to fuss over. Though not at that time, she'd known for a while now that his words had been painfully true. She had barely been a shell of the woman she was today – the woman he'd helped her find within herself. Today, she still didn't know if she could lose him or not, but she knew that she was.

In this world, surrounded by the dead, grasping to what felt more and more like borrowed time, it seemed selfish to grieve over or fear death. In this world of the walking dead, they could really only celebrate the days they managed to steal for themselves – the days they spent alive.

Sliding his head up onto her lap, she stroked the side of the face, hoping to instill some sort of comfort to him in the only way she knew how to. After all, he'd done the same for her on numerous occasions. She'd found it in the hasty dance his eyes did over hers before ever risking eye contact, in the way he only relaxed the tension he carried in his posture when he thought nobody was looking, in the memory of the warmth of his back pressed against her own on those bitterly cold winter nights, in the sound of his gruff voice or of his bow string releasing an arrow into the air, and in the feeling of strength she'd found within herself the first time she'd sunk her knife blade into a walker's skull and he'd nodded his silent approval.

Wiping away the tears that were burning a hot trail down her filthy cheeks, she realized that she'd begun humming just beneath her breath.

Daryl had overheard her humming the same tune the evening after Rick had declared war when he'd come outside the block to check on her. She'd tried to explain that it was something she had made up years ago when Sophia was still an infant; that it was something she'd used to keep herself calm as she'd rock her screaming daughter knowing full-well how angry the sounds made Ed. Even now, her explanation sounded ridiculous. What sort of mother hummed lullabies to herself? But somehow, Daryl had understood. Settling down on the cement step next to her, he'd simply nodded and asked if it still worked.

"I'm not sure," she answered now, after swallowing back the tears that had collected in the back of her throat.

Just then, his whole body seemed to seize up in her arms. Leaning her ear over his mouth, she felt no air move against her cheek. Her own breath caught in her chest as she felt him shudder before falling still. Vision bleary, she prodded at his neck, hoping with an almost-desperate naivety that she'd still feel a pulse beneath her finger tip, but there was nothing.

He was gone, free to finally make amends with his brother.

He could tell Lori how beautiful Little Asskicker was.

He could –

"If, you," Carol choked, "if you see Sophia, please tell her that I'm sorry. I'm so sorry and I still love her."

The memory of her baby girl's lifeless eyes surveying them as she stumbled out of the barn that day smacked her in the face and she realized what had to happen next. She hadn't been able to save Sophia from that fate, but she could still save Daryl.

Leaning forward, she pressed a firm kiss to his forehead before hesitantly tipping her head down and brushing her lips over his. Her hands shook as they fumbled at her holster. She prayed she'd have the strength to do this now. He would do the same for her if the situation were reversed; he had done the same for Dale and for Merle. Finally freeing her gun, she pressed the barrel against the spot on his forehead where her lips had just been.

He looked so peaceful.

A shadow fell over their position on the tiny hillside. Gazing upward, she grimaced at the large grey cloud that had slid in front of the sun. Poetic irony, be damned. She inhaled a deep breath and held it before looking back down to Daryl's body.

Her eyes clamped shut as a light breeze rustled through the brush.

When she opened them, Daryl's eyes were staring back up at her – all white and blood shot, without a trace of his normal blue. A wave of dread washed over her, and she swallowed down the bile that had shot up her throat as she staggered back from him.

Her entire body shook as she struggled to cock the pistol clutched in her hands. Just in front of her, Daryl's body had risen and was stumbling towards her prone form, his face blank and unseeing. She scrambled to her feet and, taking aim, pressed her index finger over the trigger.

The click of an empty barrel echoed in her ears.

Daryl's form continued to advance towards her. She shuddered as she felt his hands grasp at her waist. How many times had she wondered what they'd feel like on her hips? Unarmed, Carol pressed her eyes shut, accepting what would surely come next.

She'd failed him, and this would be her penance.

_BANG._

A nearby gunshot rang in her head and her eyes flew open.

The world around her was doused in a dark purple-blue. Her heart was racing inside her chest, and the high pitched chirping of crickets accompanied the sound of her own rapid breathing. Feeling light headed, her mind reeled from the sudden disorientation.

Blinking rapidly, she tried to gather her bearings.

It was definitely not morning yet, and she was definitely not standing or clutching an empty pistol. Instead, she was curled up on the ground beneath a thin blanket. Her head was propped up against something, no, somebody warm – _Daryl._ A thin beam of moonlight trickling down between the trees was the only source of light in the night sky, and her eyes strained to make out his form in the darkness. He was half-sitting against the tree where she had situated him earlier that evening.

It had only been a dream.

The surge of relief that rushed through her nearly brought tears to her eyes.

"Daryl?" she whispered into the night.

She wasn't sure why – maybe she was afraid to trust that none of it had been real – but she was surprised when his head tipped down towards the sound of her voice. It was only then that she noticed her gun cradled between his hands and the smell of decomposing flesh wafting on the gentle night breeze. Pushing herself into a sitting position and forcing the girlish blush from her cheek when she realized that his lap had been serving as her pillow, she could just make out the unmoving form of a walker laying several yards from them.

"Sorry," he mumbled, his hands dropping to his sides as though her pistol was a considerable weight to bear, "– didn't want to wake ya or waste the bullet, but we had company."

She found then that words were difficult for her mouth to form; her head still buzzed from the sudden contrast between her dream and this reality. He watched her with thin, uneasy eyes, and she felt as if he was trying to size her up, to gauge if she was okay. Finally, unable to stomach the worry of a man who'd nearly bled to death earlier that day, she managed a small nod, grimacing at the unexpected protest that the muscles in her back and neck put up in doing so.

"Let's just hope the ugly bastard don't got any friends 'round here." Daryl gestured towards the walker's corpse with his chin and winced at the effort, swinging a hand up to press against his shoulder. "That gunshot wasn't exactly quiet," he hissed between clenched teeth. "You alright?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

He looked as if he were going to shrug before thinking better of it. "I'm here ain't I?"

"Daryl Dixon, you were shot. You bled out, were in shock and spent the better part of the day unconscious. You can save the tough man routine for when we find the others. I think I deserve an honest answer when I ask how you're feeling." The decisiveness in her voice surprised even her. His eyes held hers for a moment and she was suddenly aware of just how close they were sitting. The fact that they were both sitting here at all, that he was alive and talking to her filled her with a sense of gratitude so acute that she quickly dropped her eyes from his and blinked it away.

"I've felt better, that's for damn sure. Shoulder hurts like a bitch." This time it was he who ducked his head. "Sorry."

It'd been a while since he'd apologized for cussing in front of her and she felt her cheeks turn scarlet. All the endorphins from the day were playing hazard with her sense of reason.

"When it's light out, we can search the bag for any pain pills – probably some antibiotics, too," She added, thinking about her far-from-sterile cardigan packed into the flesh of his shoulder. "Didn't want to risk giving you anything before you woke up."

He gave a non-committal sort of grunt and gazed out into the night.

They sat like that for several moments, lost in thoughts, the sounds of the night, and in memories of that morning.

"So," Carol said, finally breaking the silence, "how long have you been awake? And what happened here?" She gestured towards the stinking walker corpse and hoped he couldn't hear her disappointment at herself in her voice. She hadn't meant to fall asleep on watch and could have cost them both their lives.

"Wasn't quite dark when I came to. You were out. Just watched... ah, just let ya sleep. Figured you needed it. I may not be in the best 'a shape, but I ain't useless – could at least keep a look out." As if to prove he wasn't totally incapacitated, he made a good show of shifting himself up the tree. "By the time I heard that walker it was pretty close. Remembered my gun was empty as soon as I pulled the damned thing –"

Carol's heart clenched painfully remembering the look of anguish on his face as he had thrown the empty pistol against the cement floor of the prison in defeat, unable to offer his brother the permanent peace that they all deserved when their time was up.

"— so I grabbed your gun from your belt. Surprised my hands didn't wake ya, you're usually such a light sleeper."

The feel of walker-Daryl's hands on her waist from her dream flickered into her mind and she shivered, realizing that what she had felt were Daryl's actual hands touching her hips.

"You cold or somethin'?"

"No, I'm not cold." She answered honestly, offering him a small smile.

"—'cause you should take the blanket. Ya look like hell. None –" his voice faltered "—none 'ah that blood is yours, is it?"

Carol followed his concerned gaze down to her blood soaked tank top and the dried blood caked to her skin and imagined what she must have looked like in the evening light when he had first seen her. "I'm fine – most of it is yours, if you must know. Now," she said picking up her pistol from where it lay by his side, "you should get some rest. We need to be able to move in the morning. Glenn and Maggie, if they – they said to meet down by the river, so you'll need your strength. I'll keep watch."

As if her permission was all Daryl needed, his eyes fluttered shut and he leaned his head back against the tree trunk. He had to be exhausted. "Yes, ma'am," he murmured with a smirk on his lips. "Just promise me you'll take some of this damn blanket."

Shaking her head in a display of amusement he couldn't see, she slid even closer to the warmth of his body and accepted the corner of the blanket he was holding out for her. Gun in hand and eyes peeled, she stared out into the night determined to see them through until morning.

After all, they'd made it this far already.

~::~


	5. On the Riverbank

**A/N: As always, I want to first extend a tremendous thank you to everyone who's read, favorited, or followed this story. I also want to personally thank those of you who have taken the time to leave a review – I can't begin to tell you how encouraging and helpful they've been. I'm very much enjoying writing this story, and so it floors me that people are enjoying it! To the carylers reading this story – I especially hope you'll like this chapter. ;) **

**Caryl on!**

**Disclaimer:** _**The Walking Dead**_** and its characters are not mine. Read at your own risk; contains scenes of violence, despair, gore and character death.**

* * *

V. On the Riverbank

They very well couldn't have stayed holed up on the backside of a hill with next to no supplies waiting for the herd of walkers that had overrun the prison to make its way into the trees.

Rick's plan – she felt herself swallow roughly – _their_ plan was to convene at the river, and so that was what they were doing.

* * *

_Shaking her head in a display of amusement he couldn't see, she slid closer to the warmth of his body and accepted the corner of the blanket he was holding out for her. Gun in hand and eyes peeled, she stared out into the night determined to see them through until morning._

_After all, they'd made it this far already. _

…

When they had set out from their hillside refuge that morning, Daryl had assured her that they'd make it to the river bank in no time – that it was only a few miles away as the crow flew. Carol had to wonder then if he actually believed his words or if the pale-faced, blood-covered man was just trying to convince the both of them that he was strong enough to make the hike.

The further they walked, the more inclined she was to think the latter.

Each time he grasped at his shoulder or accidentally allowed a sharp hiss to escape his lips, every time they paused in their trek before continuing at a markedly slower pace, she forced herself to squash the deep-rooted urge to reach out a steadying hand or offer him a look of concern. Instead, she made it a habit to nod and offer him an encouraging smile just as he'd made it a habit to assure her that he was fine.

Daryl Dixon was a strong willed man, and if he believed they could make it, she knew that they would.

Eventually.

Glancing up at the licks of sunlight peeking down through the green canopy, Carol exhaled. She wasn't sure how long they'd been walking – the dense tree coverage made it difficult to tell where the sun was in the sky – but it felt like an eternity to her stiff and aching limbs. It felt even longer than an eternity if she made note of the increasing effort that Daryl's steps were requiring from him or stole a glance at the grimace that was now permanently etched onto his face.

Quietly, a corner of her mind wondered if they should have waited another day before attempting this journey.

It was only yesterday that he'd been shot and lost a significant amount of blood. He was weak and had to be in considerable pain. In an ideal world he wouldn't even be up and out of bed much less hiking through rough Georgian terrain in the stifling late summer heat, but – as Carol sternly reminded herself – this world was far from ideal, and they really had little choice in the matter. They very well couldn't have stayed holed up on the backside of a hill with next to no supplies waiting for the herd of walkers that had overrun the prison to make its way into the trees.

Rick's plan – she felt herself swallow roughly – _their_ plan was to convene at the river, and so that was what they were doing. Cut off from the prison and separated like they were, it was the only place they could go.

Glenn, Maggie, Beth and Judith would surely be on the riverbank waiting for them.

They would surely have the bags that Maggie had grabbed with the food, ammunition and medical supplies.

It was this desperate sort of faith that gripped at Carol's fortitude and kept her worries for Daryl at bay. Whether or not he was strong enough for this sort of physical exertion was irrelevant given their circumstances.

Without food or a means to hunt, they'd starve.

Without ammunition, they'd be defenseless.

Without antibiotics and a proper bandage, Daryl's shoulder would likely rot away and he'd die from infection.

The image of walker-Daryl from her dream with his pale skin and white eyes flickered into her mind and left her stomach churning. To die at the hands of tiny, microscopic organisms in this world where both the living and the dead were out for blood seemed like a painfully cruel way to go.

"Ya hear that?"

His voice sounded foreign in the relative silence they had been walking in, and snapped Carol from the morbid train of thoughts whirling in her head. Pausing, she strained to hear whatever it was he had.

"Flowin' water – can't be far now." As if renewed by their proximity to their destination, Daryl angled himself so that the heels of his boots dug into the earth as he sidestepped down the hillside. Reaching his good arm back towards her, he motioned with his hand for her to take it. "Here, watch ya'self. This's a steep one 'n the ground's sorta slick."

Trying to squash the ill-warranted grin she could feel teasing out from the sides of her mouth – the hillside was steep and his practicality was a far-shot from romantic chivalry – she placed her hand in his. Something about the feeling of his rough palm against her skin rallied her resolve. They'd nearly made it to the river. Soon they'd be reunited with Glenn, Maggie, Beth and baby Judith. The thought of the infant's bright face filled her vision and tugged at her heart.

The faint sound of water in the distance filled her ears and she couldn't help but gave Daryl's hand a firm squeeze. Looking up and catching his eyes, she allowed a small smile to creep over her face as he returned the gesture, sending a light trail of electricity dancing up her arm.

His own hand lingered around hers for a moment before dropping it. "Come on," he said roughly clearing his throat, "not sure how much longer we'll have the light."

~::~

Daryl had been right to question how much daylight they had left.

By the time they reached the bank of the river, the blue sky had begun adopting the first pink streaks of sunset. Glancing around, the impending evening hardly seemed to matter. Even if the sun was noon-high, it wouldn't have changed the fact that they were painfully alone on the rocky shore.

The mental image she'd been clinging to of finding Glenn and the girls sitting around a small fire, battle-worn, but safe shattered and she felt her breath catch in her chest. If they weren't here, where could they be?

"Maybe they decided ta find some shelter for the night," Daryl responded in a calm voice as if he'd read her thoughts. "You stay here – I'ma see if there's any sign 'a them round here."

Carol kept her eyes trained on his silhouette as the tracker scanned the perimeter for any sign of human life. She could tell by the way he continued moving in a methodical arch around their position that there was no sign of the rest of the group.

"Anything?" she called to him as loudly as she dared.

Even though she already knew the answer, she couldn't keep her face from falling as he shook his head.

"They ain't been here yet – only prints are ours," he said as he eased himself down onto the large hunk of sandstone that she stood beside. She didn't miss the sharp intake of breath he gave as he slowly flexed the fingers of his left hand. "No sign 'a walkers neither, so things could be worse."

The feeling that she'd been foolish in insisting that they traipse through the forest on a wild goose chase despite Daryl's physical condition had been percolating in her chest since she'd realized that there was nobody else on the river bank, but it evaporated as the man's words sunk into her head.

_Yet._

_They hadn't been here yet._

"It _is_ a big river," she mused out loud as a sense of optimism flickered through her exhausted body.

"It is." He offered her a small, tired smile. "I've been on runs with Glenn – he's complete shit with directions that don't involve a road map. But there's still some light – we can move up 'n down the river, see if we can't pick up any sign of 'em 'fore it gets too dark. "

"Tomorrow," Carol said, placing a steadying hand on his knee as he made to stand, "we can look tomorrow. It'd probably do more harm than good to go out now.

Pursing his lips together, he grunted in response as if to scoff off the concern hidden in her words, but as she knelt down to rifle through their meager bag of supplies she caught his eyes and the quiet thank you seated in them.

~::~

Sitting next to the low fire that Daryl had built, Carol listened for the canteen of water she had collected to boil as she ate her miniscule portion of the venison jerky and canned white beans that had been stowed in their pack. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Daryl ripped into the dried meat with his teeth and wished that she had more to offer him.

Somewhere above their heads, an owl hooted into the night.

"If only I had a few bolts," he said as he fingered his bow propped next to him and looked up into the trees, "then we'd be eatin' ya instead 'a listenin' to your racket."

She clamped her hand over her mouth in a failed attempt to stifle a giggle. It seemed almost irreverent to laugh given the happenings of the last two days, but sitting there with a bit of food in her stomach next to an alive and conscious Daryl, she couldn't help but feel a touch giddy.

"What's so funny?" He eyed her suspiciously, his own mouth turning down into a scowl.

"Sorry," she apologized, "I guess after everything that's happened this is just the first time I've felt like I can breathe."

His mouth turned up into a small smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes, and he dropped his attention to the dried blood still caked over the exposed skin of his forearms. "Just don't go getting too comfortable, we ain't exactly outta the woods out here." He began picking at the blood with the nail of his index finger, not looking up at her as he fisted his hand and silently winced. "Hell knows I ain't been much help ta anyone so far –"

"Here, let me," Carol said, glossing over his self-depreciation as she slid closer to him and took his arm by the wrist. Willing her hands not to shake, she dipped his red handkerchief into the water heating over the fire and pressed it to his skin. "Not too hot, is it?" Ignoring the way his body tensed to draw his arm back to himself, she looked up and met his eyes for a moment before concentrating on the gentle circles she was scrubbing over his skin. "And there's nothing wrong with accepting help. You know that right?" She heard him swallow as her hands grasped his other wrist and began working up and down his arm in slow, rhythmic swipes.

"Ya shouldn't have let yourself get separated from the group." His voice bordered on harsh as he spit the words out like a sour mouthful of milk. "Look where it's got ya. Ya ain't got no bullets, no food, no fucking –"

"And you had no business being alone in the tombs when you found me there, so let's call it even," she countered, willing her voice not to waver, and looked up into his face making sure to catch his eyes with her own. "I told you once that I couldn't lose you too, and I meant it. I couldn't have just left you in the prison."

Daryl's eyes flew shut and he hissed as her hand grazed too near to his wounded shoulder.

"Sorry," Carol said, pulled the cloth away from him.

"—'s okay," he said at last, his posture relaxing. "Ya don't hafta be doing this, ya know?"

She glanced up at him and offered a small, tight lipped smile. "I can't do much else for your shoulder, the least I can do is help keep you comfortable – dried blood itches something terrible." His own lips turned up at her words as she rinsed out the handkerchief. "I can help you clean up your back, if you'd like?"

The memory of the ashamed man who'd wrapped himself tightly in a bed sheet back at Herschel's farm as though the thin fabric would ward off her judgment or pity of the thick, ropey scars that mottled the skin of his torso and shoulders flashed into her mind, and so she was surprised when his right hand lifted to the top button of his shirt.

Kneeling down behind him, she pressed the cloth to his bare back slowly wiping away the layers of dried blood, sweat and dirt that caked his skin. She was almost afraid to say anything in case the modicum of trust he had handed her was dependent on their silence. Instead, she allowed herself to appreciate the way his muscles tensed and relaxed beneath his skin, the way he seemed to hold his breath each time she removed her hand to re-wet the cloth, and the way his head almost leaned back into her. It was an innocent enough action – just one person caring for the needs of another, but it may have been the damn closest thing to _intimacy_ she'd ever experienced.

Her mind reeled as the heat of this thought fluttered in her belly, and she frantically searched for words to break the spell that had fallen between them.

"You think you can do your chest?" She didn't wait for his answer before passing the cloth over his shoulder and returning to her seat beside the fire. "When we find Glenn and the girls, I'm going to have to clean your shoulder out and properly bandage it – I don't like the thought of just leaving it packed off."

Daryl nodded, scrubbing at his chest without any of the finesse she had used.

"Ya keep sayin' about finding Glenn 'n them." He paused and looked up. "What about the rest 'a the group? Did they –"

His voice trailed off as Carol's face tightened.

"Fuck."

"Hershel, he didn't make it," her voice shook as she spoke. "Shot in the abdomen, but I couldn't – I gave him my gun just before we all retreated to C block."

"Rick? Carl?"

She shrugged, hanging her head. "Don't know for sure, but – they went out the front to try and hold the herd off, to buy the rest of us enough time to get out. Just after you and –"

Her words dropped off as his face dropped. Merle's unspoken name hung heavily between them. Then in a flurry of motion, Daryl was pushing himself up and off of the ground and striding towards the trees lining the riverbank.

"Where you going?" She couldn't help the way her voice shook as she spoke.

"Gotta take a piss – ya wanna help with that, too?"

His voice cut her like a knife and she swallowed back the tears that had risen up in her throat as she stared into the darkness after him. The man had shot his brother only yesterday, and never once had she offered her condolences or offered to share in his grief with him. She'd allowed their other losses, the direness of their situation to eclipse Merle's passing.

She didn't know when she'd begun holding her breath, but she let it out at the sound of his boots returning.

"I'll take first watch. Ya get some sleep." The edges of his voice were still harsh as he dug through their pack and tossed her the thin grey blanket.

Silking the felt blanket between her fingers, Carol chanced a whispered apology.

"I'm sorry."

"It ain't nothing ."

"Of course it's something." She moved so that she was sitting near him and tentatively laid a comforting hand on his knee. "Merle's your brother. He may not have been a saint, but none of us are."

Daryl's eyes flicked over her face for what felt like an eternity before he nodded. "We'll find 'em tomorrow – Glenn, Maggie, Beth, Judith. We'll find 'em."

~::~


	6. Beside the Fire

**A/N: Only five chapters in and 71 reviews?! You, my readers, are phenomenal and I'm at loss for how to accurately voice my gratitude to you all. I don't know if I'd have made it past the first chapter without your support. **

**So, I'm very nervous about posting this chapter – it's really the fraternal, evil-twin-on-steroids of what was supposed to be a small scene in the beginning of the chapter outline. We see how that turned out. But, hey, character development is important too, right? So I'd very much appreciate your feedback on the progression of caryling and on Daryl's story (it just snuck in there… blame/credit the FABULOUS Noxid Anamchara… her work makes me feel all sorts of pre-apocalyptic Dixon feels and largely inspired Daryl's telling of his story, okay?). **

**Caryl on!**

**Disclaimer:** _**The Walking Dead**_** and its characters are not mine. Read at your own risk; contains scenes of violence, despair, gore and character death.**

* * *

VI. Beside the Fire

"Ya know, he taught me how to shoot a bow, my granddaddy."

At his words, she bit her lip to stifle her laughter and tipped her head to watch the man. For all of the countless times they'd talked since the world had ended, she'd never heard him mention his grandfather or volunteer a story about his childhood for that matter.

* * *

"_It ain't nothing ."_

"_Of course it's something." She moved so that she was sitting near him and tentatively laid a comforting hand on his knee. "Merle's your brother. He may not have been a saint, but none of us are."_

_Daryl's eyes flicked over her face for what felt like an eternity before he nodded. "We'll find 'em tomorrow – Glenn, Maggie, Beth, Judith. We'll find 'em."_

…

Despite the conviction in Daryl's words that evening and the dedication with which they had embarked on their search the following morning, one day had already come and gone with no sign of the rest of the group. As the light that flickered down between the trees and reflected off the surface of the river dimmed to grey, it seemed certain that a second day was going to end in much the same fashion – with disappointment in heart and the unspoken question of _what if_ in mouth.

Carol's eyes flicked up to the top of the hill where the silhouette of Daryl's back stood out against the orange evening light, and her stomach clenched. If masking any perceivable weakness was an artform, the man was surely Van Gough incarnate. But Try as he might, she hadn't missed the extra care he had been paying to his shoulder throughout the day or the sheen of sweat on his face despite the cooler weather that had rolled in overnight. It'd been three full days since she'd packed her cardigan into the gunshot wound, three days since the area should have been properly cleaned and bandaged, and three days since god-knows what bacteria had begun festering in the shredded tissue. He needed antibiotics and soon.

Of course, they needed a lot of things.

Her mind wandered to the small mouthful of jerky they'd allowed themselves to eat around midday and to the last can of beans that weighed awkwardly in their almost empty pack. She was certain Daryl knew the gravity of their situation, but words between them had been nearly as scarce as their supplies – almost as if the sound of their voices would chase away any chance of picking up a trail, almost as if it were ghosts they were chasing.

"This light ain't no good for this." His voice practically growled.

The frustrated sound startled her from her quiet thoughts, and looking up at him, she willed her heart rate to return to normal within her chest.

"May as well call it a day. Make camp before it's too dark to get a fire goin'."

Carol felt her head nod even as she dropped their pack from her shoulders. Over the past three nights, they had fallen into a routine of sorts – she'd collected water for boiling while he got a small fire burning, then she'd set to heating up their meager supper while he secured the area. Even though they took turns sleeping and keeping watch, Daryl took the effort to surround their makeshift camp with fallen branches and debris; said that if they couldn't keep walkers out, at least they could make sure to hear them coming.

Grabbing their canteen from the bag, she turned towards the sound of the river that had all but faded to white noise as the days wore on.

"Just watch your back down there – don't be givin' me any 'a that _nine lives_ shit, ya hear?"

Her words on his lips had her chancing a glance over her shoulder. The serious look on his face tugged up at the corners of her mouth even as her heart sunk into her abdomen – she could only guess at the toll his injury and this search was taking on his body. Since shooting the walker that first night when she'd fallen asleep on watch, he'd yet to relinquish his mask of protector and provider. She couldn't help but wonder what an extra burden it was for him to wear, and wished he'd take it off and allow himself to rest if even for just a moment.

"Same to you." She heard her voice respond.

Nighttime seemed to come on faster than it had been, and it was fully dark by the time they settled next to their small fire with a dented can of lima beans. Carol watched as the flickering flames danced over Daryl's face. The man hunched over the can and fished a mouthful of the greenish-yellow legumes out with his hand.

"Can't remember the last time I shared a candle lit dinner with a man," she quipped, a playful smirk peeking out from the corner of her mouth.

"I don't see no candles," he deadpanned as he passed her the can of beans.

"No, but who needs them with the fire embers, the night sky, all these stars" – she gestured around and took a bite of the beans, hoping to look less feral than he had – "this high quality cuisine?"

Daryl guffawed, his face hiding behind his hand as he chewed at his thumbnail. "What, that all supposed to be romantic or something?"

"You tell me," she said as she handed him the can. It was her turn to deadpan, but try as she might she hadn't managed to prevent the playful smile that she felt inside of her chest from invading her eyes. He looked into them, a matching smile in his own blue ones, for a moment before looking down at the can in his hands. She exhaled the breath that had caught in her throat and wondered whether he'd taken her seriously or not, but before she could fret over it too much, he snorted and his shoulders shook with laughter.

"Reckon there's nothin' more romantic." He shoveled another bite of beans into his mouth. "Cold, outta date beans from a can 'n more fuckin' mosquitoes than near my granddaddy's pond."

She very nearly choked as she dissolved into a fit of giggles, and brought a hand up in front of her mouth.

"Ya know, he taught me how to shoot a bow, my granddaddy."

At his words, she bit her lip to stifle her laughter and tipped her head to watch the man. For all of the countless times they'd talked since the world had ended, she'd never heard him mention his grandfather or volunteer a story about his childhood for that matter. It was something usually left to a mutual understanding, just like stories from her marriage to Ed.

"Took me out huntin' with him. I was just a scrawny, ugly little thing – couldn't hardly draw it back, but would 'a sooner stayed home 'n baked with my senile Gran than tell him that. We'd been in the woods for hours, I'd been huntin' enough times to know to be patient, but I was hungry 'n my poison ivy itched somethin' awful. Was just about to tell him so when this doe walked right out inta this clearing not a hundred feet in front 'a us. She was a gorgeous creature."

Carol felt a tender smile slip over her face as Daryl shut his eyes as if he could still see the deer in his on the backs of his eyelids.

"It shoulda been just like I was shootin' beer bottles off the fence in the yard, but I remember my bow shakin' in my hands as I lined her up in my sights. I wanted so badly to make that shot, impress my Granddaddy or some shit. Didn't want him thinkin' I was soft, so I just let the arrow fly. He musta knew I weren't gonna hit my target before it ever left the bow – ya never take a shot with shakin' hands. I did hit the deer 'n she went down, but I didn't kill her. She just lay there on the ground thrashing 'n running in place, screamin' something awful. My Granddaddy, he just marched on over to her – barked at me to follow him. Handed me his buck knife and told me to finish it. Said if I was gonna take sloppy shots, I had to be ready to finish what I started. I put the blade to the deer's throat – she was still bleating and cryin' – and I couldn't do it. Only time I ever cried in front 'a the man. Damn dropped the knife."

He pushed a derisive puff of air through his nose and raised a hand to hold his left shoulder.

"But my Granddaddy didn't raise a hand or his voice at me – never did. Just pushed by me 'n picked up his knife. Slit her throat before I even knew what was happenin'. He took my bow off 'a me. Told me that takin' a life was a responsibility to be done cleanly – that ya had to be certain that the first shot would be the only shot, that it was cruel to cause suffering, that there were enough cruel men in the world. Never did take me huntin' with him again."

Mesmerized by his story and afraid to ruin whatever spell had passed between them, Carol watched the man who, as long as she'd known him, hardly ever missed a target with his bow – even when the target had already died once.

As if he could feel her eyes on him, he cleared his throat and passed her the can of beans with shaking hands. "Ya should eat the rest – you've hardly eaten anything."

Nodding, her hand closed around the can. She was surprised when his fingers didn't retreat out from under hers, and she took a moment to memorize the feel of them.

"What …what happens if we don't find 'em?"

Her stomach dropped like a lead weight at his question, and her hand followed suit. What would happen if they didn't find the rest of the group? She had certainly thought the question in the solitude of her own mind, but to hear Daryl voice it aloud, with such honest concern, was rattling.

"It's been three days. Three days in the woods with a screamin' baby." The volume of his voice had escalated with each word and cracked painfully at the mention of Judith. "We can't even know they're alive – best we know is they made it outta the prison. Hell Carol," he said, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, "I couldn't find your little girl and I _knew_ that terrain, what makes you believe I can find Glenn 'n them now?"

"I don't."

Her answer was hardly a whisper, but he recoiled as though she'd slapped him and shot up onto his feet. Three brisk strides carried him to the edge of their make-shift camp where he paused, shifting his weight between his feet and grasping at his shoulder. Everything about his posture reminded her of an old hound dog that'd been kicked one too many times and wasn't sure whether to slink away or snap.

She felt her throat tighten and resisted the urge to follow him.

The last time she had offered up her belief in him, when Sophia had first gone missing and she'd spent her nights praying he'd find her, he hadn't known what to do with it and had raised his defenses. This time it seemed as though he'd expected her belief and even though he' had been fully prepared to reject it once more, was floundering in face of its denial.

"Daryl," she called out to him in a steady voice, extending a hand and beckoning him to return to the light of the fire, "I don't believe you'll find them because it's got nothing to do with belief." She watched as he lowered himself down beside her, taking note of the way he allowed the edge of his shoulder to just barely graze hers. "I gave up on that a long time ago –"

"I never meant for ya to stop believin'."

His quiet words stopped her as effectively as if she'd run into a sliding glass door.

"Oh, no. Daryl, you've given all of us reasons to believe time and time again. It's just, I've got no room for it in this world. It's better to stick to what I can know, and _I know_ we'll find them – the both of us. You don't have to do this on your own."

His eyes flicked over her face, and she felt her breath catch in her throat. Time stretched out over the moment; her heart rate fluttered in her chest. It wouldn't take anything for her to just lean forward, to close the space between them –

The snapping of brush shattered through her thoughts of pressing her lips to his. Hand flying to the knife at her belt, she jumped.

"—'s just a doe. Saw her nosin' round when I was standing over there."

Nodding, Carol pushed down the surge of adrenaline that had flooded her veins and concentrated on slowing her breathing.

"You're so sure we're gonna find 'em even though ya got every reason not to – you're something else, ya know that?"

"Sophia was a terrified child," she said, dipping her head at his thinly veiled compliment and willing her voice to not shake. Her daughter's name still ached on her tongue. "Glenn is a grown man. He knows how to handle walkers, and he's not alone. He's got Maggie and Beth by his side. For all we know, they're out there looking for us too."

"Glenn's got Judith 'n the girls to take care of, no reason to be lookin' for us."

"Which is all the more reason for us to keep trying. They may not be blood, but they're _our_ family."

A still silence passed between them as Daryl considered her words.

"Well," he said at last, "if we're gonna find 'em it ain't gonna be like this. Won't be no good to anyone if we starve to death or run inta more than a few walkers. What we need is food and ammunition. I've been thinkin' – we ought 'a make our way back to the prison. The course the river follows, we can't be more than a day's walk away. We can gather what we need 'n then see to findin' them all."

The memory of the fear and chaos that had reigned throughout the prison as Woodberry's bullets and the herd of walkers tore through it gripped at her heart, but she trusted the man next to her more than anyone she'd ever known. She also knew as well as he did how badly they needed supplies. If Daryl wasn't feverish yet from infection, it was only a matter of time until he would be.

Gazing down into the fire, she swallowed her fear and nodded her head yes.

Tomorrow, they'd return to the prison and whatever ghosts it held.


	7. With the Silence

**A/N: Welcome to Chapter 7 of Beyond Help! I'm so very grateful that you're here despite the abhorrent time lapse since I last updated. It's been so long since I've worked on this story, and I'm really looking forward to hearing what you think of this chapter. Constructive Criticism and commentary are invaluable. **

**Disclaimer:** _**The Walking Dead**_** and its characters are not mine. Read at your own risk; contains scenes of violence, despair, gore and character death.**

* * *

VII. _With the Silence_

Hershel was dead. Merle was dead. Rick and Carl likely were too, and, given the shape that she and Daryl were in, she had no reason to think that Glenn, Judith, Maggie and Beth weren't on their way there as well...

* * *

_The memory of the fear and chaos that had reigned throughout the prison as Woodberry's bullets and the herd of walkers tore through it gripped at her heart, but she trusted the man next to her more than anyone she'd ever known…_

_Gazing down into the fire, she swallowed her fear and nodded her head yes. _

_Tomorrow, they'd return to the prison and whatever ghosts it held. _

…

The closer they drew to the prison, the more remote the possibility of reaching its concrete walls became.

It seemed as though the herd of walkers that had poured through the prison had spread out into the surrounding woods over the past few days. Everywhere Carol looked, there were more and more rotting and stinking bodies stumbling mindlessly through the trees in search of flesh to feed on.

_In search of their flesh_

Sucking air into her lungs and willing the frustrated tears she felt burning behind her eyes to stay put, she forced her mind to focus on the man in front of her. Daryl had awoken that morning coated in the sheen of a cold sweat. Carol had managed to lay a palm against his forehead for the briefest of moments before he'd pulled himself away and struggled to hoist his bow onto his good shoulder.

His skin had felt hot to the touch.

He was burning up.

It seemed as though the infection she'd feared since first packing off his gunshot wound had taken hold. It seeped out from around her cardigan, leaving a moist yellow-colored stain on the thin fabric of his shirt, and shot down his arm in a red, web-like pattern. If they didn't reach the prison soon, he would almost surely die. When, no –_ if _that happened, she questioned whether she'd be able to end it for him, especially if her dream from a few nights back was any indication of her capabilities. The thought of failing him, of damning him to an existence amongst the undead made her stomach churn.

"—'m alright, I'm alright," he said in a shaky voice. His lungs heaved and his feet shuffled, stumbling over the underbrush. He let out a sharp hiss as his body lurched forward, barely catching himself with his hands. "Mother Fu—"

The background of low groans and staggered footsteps of walkers in the periphery paused for a moment.

Her heart froze in her chest. She forcibly shut down her thoughts and swallowed back the bile that had risen up into her throat. She couldn't afford to fall apart, not now.

"Here," she whispered hastily, ambling to his side.

She was stronger than this.

"Take my hand – we have to keep moving." Even his hands burned against her skin as she helped him to his feet. Glancing nervously over her shoulder, she fished the canteen with their last drops of water from her pack. "Drink this."

He didn't bother trying to refuse.

"Thanks." He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. "I'm okay, really."

She nodded and hoped her skepticism didn't betray her face.

"We need to move," he said as he looked over his shoulders. He unsheathed his hunting knife from his belt and turned it over in his hand. "Now."

They continued through the trees and over the rough terrain a half-step faster than before – desperation and fear driving their footsteps. Daryl led the way, carrying his weight low and his knife at the ready. Carol's eyes watched as the wings of his vest jostled in time with his strides. At least one of them had a guardian angel on their shoulder.

He certainly was in need of one.

Clamping her eyes shut, she began repeating her mantra over and over in her head. After all, it'd gotten her this far.

_Just a little further._

_Just a little further. _

But the edge of the tree line, much less the walls of the prison were still too far away, and Michonne wasn't here this time to serve as a their protector.

This time they were on their own.

Grotesquely outnumbered and armed with exactly three bullets and two hunting knives between the two of them, a quick and quiet passage was their only hope of making it through the edges of the herd and into the prison unscathed. Both she and Daryl knew their only chance was to continue pushing forward.

Mirroring his pace and gait, Carol's feet came to a stop when he paused at the crest of a hill. His posture folded inward and his hand grasped at his shoulder as he turned his head to glance back at her.

"There's a clearing over this hill," he whispered, pointing with his injured arm and wincing, "—'m gonna check it out. Make sure it ain't too good ta be true. Just stay here. I'll be right back."

She nodded her head and watched as Daryl hung a left around a large, fallen log and disappeared over the crest of the hill. Inhaling a steadying breath, she tried to block out the sounds of the walkers. They were much too close for comfort, but too numerous to do anything about. She turned her back to the hillside to keep an eye on their rear. It wouldn't do to be surprised from behind.

Taking a short stride forward, it suddenly felt as if gravity had turned over on her.

She stifled a scream as her heart flew up into her throat and her body slammed down onto the hard earth. Struggling to pull air into her lungs, she glanced over her shoulder. A white-grey hand attached to a legless torso that lay beneath a fallen tree limb gripped her ankle and clawed at her leg with a seemingly impossible strength. Its jaw, blackened with dried blood, reached and snapped out at her foot.

A strangled cry escaped her lips as her legs reflexively kicked back. Looking to her empty hand, panic ebbed in from the corner of her vision. The impact of her fall had sent her knife scattering across the forest floor, and it now lay just out of her reach.

The sound of uneven, lurching footsteps approaching made her hair stand on end. It was no surprise she'd drawn attention to herself. Her fall hadn't been quiet, and the woods were crawling with walkers.

Carol felt hot tears run down her face.

This couldn't be how it ended, not after everything she'd been through – the years of Ed's abuse, the sight of Sophia stumbling from Hershel's barn, the months of nearly freezing to death on the road, the horror of dying alone in the tombs of the prison, the chaos of Woodberry's assault on the prison, and the terror of watching Daryl bleed on the forest floor – no, she wouldn't be going down without a fight.

Cocking her free leg and taking careful aim, she landed one powerful kick and then another on the torso-walker's thin wrist until she heard a sickeningly-satisfying crack followed by the squelch of tearing tissue. Separated from its body, the hand slackened its grip on Carol's ankle. She hastily dove forward and grabbed her knife before scrambling to her feet. Straight ahead of her stood a large, putrid-looking walker. Just behind it, another was approaching with its lithe arms extended. Her heart pounded in her ears as she turned her blade over in her hand and raised it.

"Carol?"

She heard Daryl's choked voice call from over the hill. She held her breath for a moment and could hear the sound of feet scuffling and twigs snapping from his direction.

"Carol?"

What was happening in the clearing? She needed to get to him – he was the most capable man she knew, but he was in no condition to be fending off walkers.

He needed her.

Leaning forward, she charged at the large, putrid walker in front of her and hoped her momentum would help to bury her knife in its skull. Its corpse had ceased moving and had hit the ground before she chanced opening her eyes. There was no time to celebrate her victory. She hastily retrieved her blade and turned to line herself up with the second one. This time, her knife didn't sink cleanly into the walker's head. With only the tip of her blade embedded, the gaunt creature continued ambling towards her, snapping its jaw. Surprised, Carol opened her hand from around the blade and immediately cursed herself for it – what was she supposed to do without her knife? Stepping backwards to buy herself a few seconds, she glanced around and unearthed a baseball-sized rock from the brush. Springing forward, she tackled the lithe walker, and they both tumbled forward. Her breath came in fast shallow gasps and her head swam as she raised the rock over the creatures head and slammed it down on the hilt of her knife as though she were hammering a loose nail back into a floorboard. Below her, the stinking corpse stilled.

She felt her own body sag for a moment before the unmistakable groan of yet another walker filled her ears. She clambered to her feet, rock in hand, and spun around looking for the source of the groaning.

She hadn't made it a hundred and eighty degrees before she found it. A male walker dressed in a -tattered, black Police uniform. Its golden badge shone in the sunlight. Carol's mind flew to Rick, and she wondered if he hadn't made it out the front of the prison, whether he'd been granted the mercy of a permanent death.

She choked back one sob and then another. Hot tears streamed down her face as the faces of Amy, Jim and Jaqui, of her sweet Sophia, of Patricia and Jimmy, of Lori, T-Dog and Herschel, of Rick and Carl and Daryl flickered through her mind. She let out a primal cry as she rushed forward and trapped the cop-walker against a tree-trunk. She felt the cool rock in her hand. Felt her arm rise into the air and slam down again and again. Felt the bark rip into her knuckles and tear at her fingers. She felt the spatter of chilled blood and brain matter against her face and chest.

And then she felt nothing.

Spinning around, she leaned back against the tree, paying no mind to the layer of walker remains coating its rough surface. Allowing the trunk to support her weight, she reveled in the stillness and closed her eyes.

The stillness, like so many other things in the world, was short lived.

Rough, grasping hands and an oozing, swollen chest pinned her back against the tree. Her eyes flew open. An enormous, black walker that she recognized as being one of the Governor's men hissed and growled pressing forward into her. She gasped as its fingers dug into the flesh of her shoulders and shuddered as its mouth snapped at the air, barely missing the crook of her neck.

This was it. She was surely dead. Carol prepared herself to feel the pain of its teeth ripping at her flesh, to watch her organs tearing from her body.

The walker lunged at her face, and she reflexively blinked her eyes shut.

When she opened them, she wasn't dead.

Instead, the massive weight of the Woodberry walker was slumped, unmoving, against her – the tip of a long hunting knife poked through the front of its skull. She strained to peer around it.

Daryl stood about ten paces away. His arm was still extended from his knife throw, and a horror stricken look was pasted on his ashen face.

"Carol?" he called, "Carol – you bit? Fuck."

"No." Her voice trembled. "No, I don't think so."

Then he was beside her, retrieving his knife and pushing the stinking corpse off of her. His hands ran up and down her arms – his eyes flew over her face and body. She felt her knees buckle, and her weight sagged against his chest. His arms wrapped reflexively around her. One hand rubbed slow circles into her back while the other held the back of her head to him.

"Christ, Carol, your shoulders –"

His words hung in the air, momentarily forgotten as the sound rustling and snapping brush demanded their attention.

"Daryl?" she questioned.

He nodded. "Let's go."

And so they went.

The threat of walkers pressed in on their heels as they made their way through trees that mercifully grew thinner the closer they drew to the prison yard. When they reached the chain-link fence, Carol chanced a look over her shoulder. Daryl stood a few steps back from her. His chest heaved and he clutched at his shoulder with a pained grimace on his face.

"We're nearly there," she called to him, "just a little farther."

"—'m fine, woman."

The rhythm of his footsteps grew more and more erratic while they slipped between the cut links of the fence and crossed the yard, which thankfully seemed to be clear of walkers. It was only as they made their way through the large defect in the prison's brick wall that Daryl was forced to stop. He leaned back against the wall and, leaning forward, planted his hands on his knees.

"—'s hot in here?" he asked, panting. "Everything's spinnin' all a sudden. Carol?"

"Here, I've got you." Carol rushed to his side just as his knees threatened to give out altogether. She hoisted his good arm over her shoulder for the umpteenth time in the last four days, and winced at its contact against the gouges the Woodberry walker's fingertips had left in her shoulders.

"Ya do, don't ya?" he mumbled, "—'m I dying?"

"I don't know."

Knife in one hand and her other steadying his back, she led them through the tombs to the stock of supplies they so desperately needed. Hopefully, with a little luck, a proper bandage and a few doses of antibiotics, Daryl would be dying later rather than sooner.

She wished she could be as hopeful for herself.

~::~

Only a few short days ago, the walls of the prison had been a home, no matter how tenuous.

Now, sitting in the hollowed out shell of that home, Carol found the blood-spattered, concrete walls to be nothing short of haunting. Aside from the stinking bodies of walkers piled outside of the entrance to C block and scattered throughout the interior of the block, everything looked very much the same as it had the morning the Governor had attacked. The meager makings of breakfast sat untouched on the table in the cafeteria, and the cots in the cells were rumpled and unmade. Sophia's doll sat forgotten in the mail bin that served as Judith's crib. Truthfully, if she closed her eyes and held her breath, Carol half expected to see them – Rick, Carl and Judith, Michonne, Hershel , Maggie and Beth, Glenn, Daryl and Merle– going about their business as if nothing had changed.

But everything had changed.

They'd been attacked and driven out like unwanted pests.

Hershel was dead. Merle was dead. Rick and Carl likely were too, and, given the shape that she and Daryl were in, she had no reason to think that Glenn, Judith, Maggie and Beth weren't on their way there as well.

Checking the chain and lock that secured the bars separating the block from the cafeteria for the fifth time, Carol nodded and returned to her tasks. She'd only come across two walkers since she and Daryl had entered the prison – it seemed that the majority of the herd that had poured through the building had grown restless and moved on into the forest once the casualties of the governor's assault were no longer able to satiate their hunger – but it couldn't hurt to be overly cautious.

Her stomach gave a loud growl as she stirred the tin-turned-pot heating over the stove top. She'd unearthed a bit of oatmeal and the remnants of a bottle of honey from the food stores they'd gathered but hadn't taken with them. The idea of enjoying a bite of hot oatmeal made her mouth salivate. Until that moment, she hadn't realized how hungry she was and willed breakfast to cook faster.

Sauntering over to the table, she surveyed the assortment of medical supplies she'd unearthed from Hershel's cell. They were the same medical supplies Carl had gathered together from the infirmary – IV catheters, bags of fluids, a thermometer, suture, gauze and bandages, rubbing alcohol, syringes, an array of injectable medications, and vials pills. She wasn't sure what some of the medications were, but she recognized the names of a few antibiotics and pain-killers in the bunch.

As childish as it sounded, she felt like she was looking at the contents of a buried treasure chest.

In this world, she was.

On the other side of the cafeteria, Daryl shifted on the cot he'd been sleeping on.

He'd been delirious by the time they'd reached the familiarity of the block, and had barely registered her popping a thermometer into his mouth. It seemed that the IV catheter that she'd placed in one of the deliciously visible veins in his forearm was helping, though. She was by no means familiar with dosing medications, but had figured that as sick as he was, she couldn't really hurt him. Thus, between the fluids, antibiotics, and pain medications that'd been steadily dripping into him from the IV bag for the past few hours, his temperature had come down from the terrifying 105.4 that it'd started at. Though he was still feverish the last she'd checked, he'd at least been able to rest peacefully.

He shifted again, sitting up this time.

"Carol?"

She was getting used to hearing her name on his voice, and hid the smile that flickered on her lips as she walked over to him.

"It's good to see you awake – you had me worried." She leaned against the wall at the head of the cot.

"You do all 'a this?" He gestured at the IV bag and the line that disappeared beneath a patch of tape on his arm.

She nodded. "From all the stuff Carl found when he raided the infirmary. I still need to change the bandage, but I figured I'd wait for you to wake up. Made some oatmeal too."

This time he nodded as his hands rose to the buttons along the front of his shirt. "Smells good. Reckon it's been too long if that buggy oatmeal smells this good."

"It's definitely been too long,"

The double meaning of her words surprised her, and she cleared her throat. She could feel the blush creep over her cheeks and she dropped her gaze as he slid out of his shirt with none of the hesitancy he had shown back at the Greene farm. It was almost as if the shame he had felt over his body was nothing more than a remnant from another life.

Carol swallowed roughly and gathered up some bandage supplies. As far as they knew, they were all each other had in the world. There was no room for the heat that fluttered in her stomach as her eyes betrayed her intentions and slid up his abdomen. Focusing her attention on the seeping, discolored wound festering at his shoulder, she sat beside him on the bed and tentatively brought her hands up to touch the burning skin.

When the bandage was changed, she made to stand up – to put some space between them, but he surprised her and brought his shaking, hesitant hands up to her shoulder. His eyes flickered over hers, and she wished she knew what it was he was thinking.

His hands tightened their grip on her shoulders.

She winced.

A worried look passed over his face and he brushed the strap of her tank top from her shoulder.

She knew he was staring at the four, bloody gouges dug into her pale skin. Hanging her head, she tried to swallow back the overwhelming feeling of failure that coursed through her body.

When he spoke, his voice was hardly more than a whisper.

"What happened?"

"It's not a bite –" She hated how desperate her voice sounded. Hated the tears that broke through her words. "I – that last walker, the one that pinned me to the tree. I got scratched."

Looking up into his face, she wished that Daryl would look at her with any expression – anger, judgment, disappointment – besides the unreadable look he was regarding her with now.

"Daryl?"

"How ya feel?" he asked after a moment.

"Truthfully?" She stood up from his bedside and crossed over to the stove and the pot of oatmeal simmering there. "I feel hungry. I'm ... I won't let this ruin the first decent meal we've had in the past four days."

"Alright, then."

She watched as he rose to his feet, picking up his IV bag, and followed her to the table.

Together, they ate in silence. And when they were done eating, they gathered together all the food and supplies that they could find in silence. And as the sun dipped below the barred windows outside the prison, they sat silently staring at their loot.

"Tomorrow," he said at last, breaking the heavy spell that had settled between them, "we ought'ta go outside, see what sort of weapons and ammo we can find."

"Daryl, I –"

"I ain't gonna talk about it, Carol." He cut her off and stood up from the table. "We don't really know if scratches mean shit. An' I ain't puttin' no goddamn bullet in your head unless I gotta. Already done enough ah that."

_Merle._

Of course he'd done enough of that. The man had been forced to shoot his brother, his blood, in the head only four days ago.

"Where are you going?" she asked, fear creeping into her voice as he pulled his IV catheter out of his arm and stalked away from the cafeteria. Something about his posture looked downright feral as he unchained the door leading out from the block.

"Outside – that alright by you? Christ."

The door clanged shut and, aside from the sound of her breathing, the block fell back into silence.

~::~


End file.
